


The White of Holy Sepulchres

by little_abyss



Series: Nights like Whirlwind [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Chantry Boys (Dragon Age), Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Guilt, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sacred Objects, Sexy Chant of Light Recitation, Templars (Dragon Age), The Chantry (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25839910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Cullen has something that he must learn to survive; Sebastian shows him a different way. But the question remains:how far would he go to learn the Maker's Will?
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Sebastian Vael
Series: Nights like Whirlwind [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/510970
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	The White of Holy Sepulchres

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/gifts).



In spite of the chains, Kirkwall had seemed like freedom in the beginning. But as the weeks slid by and the twin blades of new routines and new faces had lost their keenness, Cullen found thoughts of the tower returning to him. Mage blood on grey stone; his hands shaking, effort in every breath. Screams in the night, the softness of Desire’s voice, the heft of her breast in his hand and her laughter in his head. Amell; those lovely eyes, the way she’d glance at him then away again. It was his fault, all his fault. 

Still, he persists. It is all he knows how to do.

He devotes himself to his duties and to his faith. On his knees in the calm of the Grand Chantry, his uniform kilt pooled around his legs, Cullen breathes deep. The air is warm; there is no service at the moment so the lay brothers and sisters are performing the tasks set for them by their various clerics. Their presence is, somehow, soothing. The hardness of the parquet floor under his knees, the way his armour digs into him above his hips and into his arms, the way he sweats under his wool and mail - it all adds to the feeling of rightness, that this is somehow meant to be. That in order to understand the Holy Law and his place within it, in order to feel this calm, he should endure the suffering of his body. Endure suffering, and attain peace. It all seems so simple.

Perhaps that is the reason for what happens next? Cullen does not know; he only knows that his world changes subtley - keenly - when he feels the gentle touch on his shoulder, the murmured command: “Rise from your knees, Brother Templar. Your Order was not made for kneeling.”

He looks up, startled. Those bright eyes, bluer than the sparkling lake at Honnleath, bluer than the dome of the summer sky stretched out above the top of Kinloch Tower. Cullen blinks up, into them, and the man smiles down at him. “You have been here, on your knees, for far too long,” he tells him, and extends his hand. “Prayer is important, but so too are matters of a more carnal nature.” 

“I… it was…” Cullen begins, and the man - a lay brother, he sees - smiles as he pulls Cullen to his feet, his hand warm.

“Eat and drink, Brother Templar. We care for the bodies that the Maker gave us, do we not?”

“I… yes. Of course.”

“Then go and care for yours,” the lay brother tells him. A slight pause, and he cocks his head, smiling curiously, watching Cullen, who feels himself blush, feels the old instinct to rub at the back of his neck in chagrin. “But come and speak with me tomorrow. I will be here.”

There is no question - only authority. And he nods, watching as the lay brother gives him a final quicksilver smile then turns and walks away, his head held high. Half way down the aisle, the man turns to tell Cullen, “I am Brother Sebastian.” Cullen swallows, nods quickly and Sebastian’s smile widens slightly. He inclines his head then continues to walk up the aisle, toward the gently gleaming statue of Andraste. Cullen stares for a moment longer, then he turns himself, leaving the Chantry to complete the task assigned him by the Brother - and that night, sleeps more deeply than he’d done in years.

-ooo-

He was true to his word. When next Cullen arrives at the Grand Chantry, Sebastian is seated at the base of the great statue, staring up at it, his throat exposed, expression thoughtful. Slowly, Cullen approaches; in the hush of the Chantry, his armour is loud. At the noise of it, Sebastian turns and their eyes meet, and Sebastian smiles, rising. “Brother Templar,” he says. The welcome in his voice is clear. “Tell me, did you attend your own body, when we parted ways?” 

Cullen nods, somehow shy - the question seems innocuous on the surface, but there’s something in the tone that makes it into somehow… more. Sebastian smiles, gestures to a pew, and they sit together, Cullen’s armour creaking softly. For a long time, they are silent, and then Sebastian says, “I have seldom seen a Templar so devout as you. I was wondering… what is it that you seek?”

“Guidance,” Cullen answers. For a moment, no longer than an intake of breath, he pauses, then continues, wondering at himself: “I’ve tried to take solace in what I have, in the duties I perform… but nothing feels right. I… I’ve done things, in my past, before I came here to Kirkwall and the Gallows that I did in the service of the Maker, but I feel as if…” He sniffs and shrugs slightly. “I don’t know what to do about it. It feels wrong to doubt the path that the Maker has set me on. And I don’t regret the oath I made; my life for the Order.” He struggles for a moment, then sighs, giving up. “I feel almost as if I deserve it. It feels right, to feel… wrong. And that makes me worried. I suppose.”

It’s rare for him to talk about himself so freely. He shifts on the pew, moving his gloved hands onto his lap, beginning to knot them into fists. What would the Brother think of him? 

Sebastian nods, raising his hand slightly, enough to run the backs of his fingers against Cullen’s knuckles softly - a gesture of comfort, a gesture of potential which sends Cullen’s heart skidding against his ribs. “Suffering - any kind - is not a punishment. The Maker did not send Andraste to the pyre to punish her; He allowed Her to die, to show us the lengths that we must go to to learn His Will. He uses suffering as a herbalist uses a poultice; to help us to get better. Suffering, enduring that suffering - that is how we learn, that is how we get better. That could be why it feels as it does. Wrong, yet right.”

Cullen nods then, though mentally, he wrestles with the idea. “I suppose. What if I… deserve punishment? What then? What happens if I...enjoy it?”

“Who is it that decides whom it is among us deserves punishment?” Sebastian’s voice is serious, and Cullen looks from the statue of Andraste to the man beside him. The lay brother’s face remains tilted up, gazing in contemplation at the statue before them. “It is not our place. All we can do is help each other through the tribulations, if we can.”

Cullen murmurs unhappily. He doesn’t know how to put his thoughts into words; all he knows is that he’d hoped for more, somehow, something tangible, someone to show him the way forward. Some relief. He swallows, trying to smile, reminding himself that Brother Sebastian is probably just a kind soul who is trying his best, but has perhaps led a cloistered life and doesn’t understand. An excuse forms on the back of his tongue, politely thanking the Brother for his time; he opens his mouth to say the words, inhales to let them into the world… and then Sebastian turns his face toward Cullen. Those bright eyes consider him, and Cullen is struck once more by the authority, the natural command in his gaze. The words die on his tongue, and he closes his mouth. Sebastian regards him quietly for a moment, then says softly, “I think I could help you, at least a little. But first, answer this: how far would you go to understand the Maker’s Will, Brother Templar?”

Cullen says nothing, only blinks. Sebastian watches him carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly, then he smiles, just the ghost of a smile, enough to curl his lip. They do not speak for a long time, only gazing at each other, then Sebastian tells him, still in that quiet voice, “I cannot help until you ask me to.”

“Please,” Cullen mutters, his voice choked. “Please help me. I want… I want to understand.”

Sebastian nods. “Then meet me here again tomorrow. Come for the service at nones, and remain an hour with me in contemplation.” 

“Yes, Brother Sebastian,” Cullen mutters. “Should I… I should go. Get back, I mean.”

“Very well,” Sebastian smiles, and rises. “Until tomorrow.”

Cullen nods. They rise, and he turns, moving off down the aisle. It seems he feels Sebastian’s gaze on him, heavy and somehow warm, but when he glances over his shoulder, the lay brother has gone.

All that long night, he revels in his memories of their encounter. The brush of Sebastian’s fingertips against the back of Cullen’s gloved knuckles as they sit together, silent, the lay brother’s presence next to him, warm and weighted, that is a sweet suffering all of its own. How many times did he replay the question -  _ how far would you go to understand the Maker’s Will, Brother Templar? _ Cullen does not know. He grits his teeth against the force of these thoughts as the Sebastian in his mind rakes short nails up his back, scoring his flesh; as he licks the sweat from Cullen’s naked chest, those blue eyes wanton and wild.  _ How far would you go _ ? asks the Sebastian in his mind, smirking as he tightens knots at Cullen’s wrists; as he wraps strong hands around Cullen’s throat and applies careful, crushing pressure. The thoughts send his blood reeling through his body, his heart heaving. As the first fingers of dawn break over the horizon, he finally sleeps; but it is shallow, fitful, and he wakes with shame and desire curled in his chest.

Later that morning, Cullen draws a long breath, willing himself to relax. Dimly, he notes the raised voices around him, and joins with them in the recitation of the Canticle: “...at the Maker’s Right Hand, and be forgiven.”

The Sister leading the service nods slightly, and holds her candle aloft. “Go in the Maker’s name, always mindful of the Law which He set down, guiding the hand of his Most Holy Bride, Andraste; Brothers and Sisters, you walk with Her at your side, always under the gaze of the Maker.”

“As do you, Mother,” they chant as one, then they are rising, all around him. Cullen rises too, a moment behind the mass of the Templars and mages, who are now making their way along pews and into the aisle, ready to return to the Gallows. 

They’re approaching the exit, all as one, moving quietly. Most of the mages walk with heads bowed, cowls pulled low over their faces - this is the only place that they are allowed to wear them. Meredith had ordered, just last week, that their faces be visible at all times in another sensible measure to stem the tide of insubordination in the Gallows. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear,” she had told them, as Orsino stood by her side, hands tucked into his sleeves, impassive. Cullen is contemplating all this, thinking only of those words -  _ nothing to hide, nothing to fear  _ \- when he shifts his gaze and Brother Sebastian is there.

He inclines his head as Cullen watches. Cullen becomes suddenly deeply aware of the thump of his pulse, of the sweat at the back of his neck, of the thrill which races along his spine. Without meaning to, he opens his mouth, inhaling, the warm, scented air of the Chantry filling his mouth. A small smirk curls Sebastian’s lip, and he moves his head slowly to the left, then arches an eyebrow as if in question. Cullen lowers his chin and swallows, considering, then gives a tiny nod. Sebastian’s smile changes, Cullen cannot place the meaning of it, then he is turning away, clearly meaning for Cullen to follow. Cullen clears his throat and the Templar next to him asks, “Yes, Captain?”

“I have some business to attend to,” Cullen says, marvelling at how level his voice sounds. “Mettick, make sure your men are ready for transferring the three prisoners to Aeonar.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Templar mutters, and Cullen nods. He steps neatly into the space between the pews, allowing the others to continue to walk down the aisle. Keeping his chin up is hard; he’s sure he can feel all their eyes upon him, and he can’t help how his gaze becomes aggressive, scanning the faces before him. Their eyes remain downcast, however, and nobody utters a word, much less questions him as to why he might stay. Cullen waits until the last of the Templars are near to the exit, then moves down the aisle again, turning before the main gallery, following the direction in which Sebastian had gone.

There’s a long corridor here, dim and scented faintly with beeswax. After the shuffle of feet echoing off the vaulted ceiling, the voices of the service, it seems preternaturally silent - apart from a soft sigh behind one of the three closed doors. As Cullen watches, hesitant, the door furthest from the end on which he stands opens, just a crack - an invitation. His heart leaping in his chest, Cullen approaches carefully. He reaches the door and waits, listening. Nothing. Finally, he can stand it no longer and murmurs, “Brother Sebastian?”

“Enter,” the lay brother calls softly from within, and slowly, Cullen pushes the door open. Sebastian leans with his hip against an armoire, a book open in his hands. He does not look up, even when Cullen clears his throat and asks, “You… wanted me?”

“Indeed I do,” Sebastian mutters, his eyes not leaving the page before him. “Brother Templar, do you remember what I asked you to consider?”

“I… yes.” Cullen pauses to swallow, then replies, “You asked how far I would go to learn the Maker’s Will.”

Sebastian inclines his head very slightly, and for a moment, there is silence. Then he lifts his gaze to Cullen, and his blue eyes blaze as he asks softly, “Well?”

_ What is this? _ Cullen wonders, and his mouth drops open. He draws a breath, hardly knowing what it is that he’s going to say, when Sebastian smirks and closes the book in his hand with a snap. “Don’t bother. Brother Templar, I don’t believe you have it in you. You are devout, certainly - but in the same way a dog pays obeisance to its master.” Sebastian shrugs and shakes his head. “You would go exactly as far as you were asked, never pushing for more, though you might hope desperately to be offered it.”

Cullen blinks in shock, stunned to silence at the vitreol in Sebastian’s words. Then he rallies, and makes a short noise of disgust. 

“You don’t know me,” he says, his voice quiet, though sudden anger lances through his chest. “And you know even less of the work the Maker guides me to do. I put my own desires, my own feelings, to one side, just as you do, to further the work of His Hand, and the teachings of Andraste. You know  _ nothing _ , sitting up here, preaching to those below; you could never understand the things I’ve done… And I can’t crush it, I can’t get away from this feeling, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault, I chose this, I...” Cullen draws a sharp breath, realising that he’s on the verge of shouting. Apologies rise to his lips, but some instinct keeps him silent. Sebastian inclines his head, still smiling that same, cat-like smile.

“So,” he begins, staring at Cullen. “It’s guilt. In a moment of anger… here it is. Brother Templar…” Slowly, Sebastian walks toward Cullen; as he does, he reaches out with one hand. Cullen watches him, eyes narrowed, wondering. Sebastian watches him carefully, the backs of his fingers now against the ensign of the Holy Sword on Cullen’s chest, dragging them softly, almost obscenely, up and down the painted blade. “I do not care what caused your guilt. I do not care, because it has led you here, where we might both achieve a deeper understanding of what the Maker needs from us.” He pauses, the blue gaze never wavering from Cullen’s face. Cullen feels arrested, as if the world has ceased around them, and finally, Sebastian breaks the spell: “Brother Templar, lift your kilt for me.”

Cullen swallows, then asks, “Why should I?” 

“Because I wish to show you how worthless your guilt is,” Sebastian murmurs. “And because I wish to show you that we suffer to  _ learn _ . Will you do it?”

And his body is so close, their bodies together. He breathes hard out of his nose, the scent of beeswax and old books around him, and Sebastian’s gaze turns appraising.

“All you need to do is make the decision. Nothing more.”

Cullen’s hand fumbles over his hip to clutch at the thick wool of his kilt. His stomach feels tight, every muscle taut with tension. Is this what he seeks? Is this what the Maker guided him to the Grand Chantry for? He glances up, sees Sebastian’s piercing gaze upon him; and in that moment, he knows. 

His hands feel clammy inside his gloves, even as he pulls up the kilt, over his knees, over his thighs. It whispers over the armour underneath, the sound a soft sigh, and Sebastian smiles. “Hold it there,” he tells Cullen, his voice soft but full of command. “I’m going to expose you, touch you, gently at first, and then… perhaps, not so gently. Don’t move; don’t speak, unless I speak to you first. If you need me to stop, tell me to stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Cullen mutters. Sebastian considers for a moment, then puts his hand against Cullen, the palm pressed against the mail of the goussett - even through the wool and metal, Cullen feels the warmth of it, the pressure, and he stifles a gasp. “Good,” Sebastian says, and his hand shifts, both hands moving to untie the knots which hold the mail and cloth in place. 

Once it is done, Sebastian places one hand upon Cullen again, this time rubbing his palm against the shaft of Cullen’s cock, skin-to-skin, his fingers caressing Cullen’s balls. As he’d undressed Cullen - slowly, achingly slowly - Cullen had felt himself hardening and closed his eyes, squeezed them shut until he feels Sebastian’s other hand rise further, going to the back of Cullen’s neck, clasping him tightly. It feels… incredible, perfectly, deliciously wrong. Cullen breathes heavily, watching the stutter of the candlelight in the shine of Sebastian’s hair, in the way the gold glimmers from the letters on the spines of the books, but unable to meet his gaze. Sebastian makes a satisfied sound, a sound of anticipatory pleasure. “That’s right,” he murmurs, “Yes, that’s good. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cullen whispers. “Yes, it feels good.”

“And you want this? You want me touching you like this?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Good,” Sebastian says. “That’s good.” Loosely, he wraps his fingers around Cullen’s cock, dragging it lazily through his fist. His grip tightens slightly, and Cullen exhales softly; it’s not a groan, barely even audible, but Sebastian smiles. “Good,” he repeats. The rhythm continues, the circlet of Sebastian’s fingers working upon Cullen until he feels, oh, so hard, wound so tight that he can barely breathe. His grip is warm, soft and warm and his hand on the back of Cullen’s neck is firm but soothing - directing without being didactic. Cullen is beginning to lose himself to the sensation, his concern that someone will walk in on them dropping away as Sebastian’s hand works up and down the shaft of his cock, his palm beginning to slip slightly as the liquid pools first at the slit, then begins to run down. Sebastian murmurs, a satisfied sound, then his grip slackens, and the rhythm of his hand slows. 

“Cullen,” he murmurs, dragging the name out into a perverse sing-song. “Cullen, there’s nothing here that you need feel guilt over. Everything that happens here, happens under the gaze of the Maker, and His most Holy Bride. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course…” Cullen gasps and hesitates. “But, but it seems… oh  _ Maker, _ please don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

Sebastian’s hand does not stop, but it does slow to an awful, torturous motion, more arhythmic squeeze than the smooth actions of only a moment before. “It isn’t for you to decide,” Sebastian purrs, “I thought you knew that? Let it go; the Maker sees all. Is he stopping us right now? Is his Bride?” A rough jerk and twist and Cullen almost breaks his promise; he feels the cry in the back of his throat and without thinking, thrusts his leather-clad fist into his mouth, biting hard on the meat of his thumb. From behind his closed eyes, he hears Sebastian chuckle. “Brother Templar,” he whispers, “If you feel guilty, the Maker doesn’t care. What can he do with your guilt? Is it holy? Will it stem the rise of the Qun, will it break the back of the Black Chantry? Will it bring the Dalish to the Chant of Light? Your guilt is words, and He doesn’t want them.” 

Cullen whimpers and closes his eyes. He’d sworn he wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, but Maker, this is... this is punishing, the deep well of his desire rising up to meet him, the pull of the images inside his head - mage blood on the grey stone, burst of abomination flesh, the sweet stink that Desire had conjured around herself, the white-hot fire of want in his veins, even at the memory of it. The muscles in his thighs tighten, he feels close, so close, even as rough as Sebastian is being with him, the painful squeeze of his hand around his cock, the way he pulls at it almost carelessly now. It’s torture, bright and perfect, and for one shining moment, Cullen hangs suspended within it, the glorious moment where he feels his whole body alive to Sebastian’s touch. And then suddenly, too suddenly, Sebastian’s grip is gone. 

Cullen’s eyes fly open; he whips his head up to see Sebastian looking at him, one eyebrow raised. “Brother Templar,” he murmurs, “This is no place for your useless guilt. Contemplate this as you restrain your own touch upon yourself; tomorrow, I want to hear what you _ will do _ , not what you  _ have done _ . Bring me this,” And he flicks the end of Cullen’s throbbing cock hard enough to bring a stifled moan to Cullen’s lips, “As hard as it is now, but untouched. Come to me at the same time. I will be here.” He hesitates a moment, then reaches out, his hand on the back of Cullen’s neck again, pulling their faces together. “Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud, and the heat from the blaze reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out. Remember, Brother Templar. We suffer as Our Lady suffered; to better ourselves, to bring ourselves closer to the Maker.” They stand there, Cullen almost wimpering with the incredible tension he feels, Sebastian firm, intractable, his hand hard on Cullen’s neck. Then the moment is gone, and Sebastian steps back. He smiles a little at Cullen, then shifts his gaze away, folding his hands together. “You may go, Brother Templar.”

Cullen swallows. Questions swarm, breaking against each other in his mind, but he does not speak. Eventually, he remembers himself, and he reties the laces of the gousset, wincing slightly at the discomfort it elicits, then lets his kilt fall back into place. He nods at Sebastian, who arches an eyebrow and smiles again, then turns and walks from the room.

He feels a mess.  _ How _ could Sebastian tease him like that, it was… it was cruel, almost, and that flick, Cullen could weep, it still hurts, the sweat which had gone unnoticed before now seems to make his undershirt stick to him, and he’s sure he smells shameful. But it isn’t just that. His guts roil with nerves, and his head pounds with confusion: what had he meant when he said that he wanted Cullen to suffer? And what was all of that about wanting to hear about what he will do? What on earth might Sebastian want?

There is no question. He will return. He will follow his instructions, and he will suffer, and, Maker willing, he will learn. 

-ooo-

Cullen moves to get a better grip on the doorframe, and he furtively thrusts against the cold stone. He isn’t allowed to touch himself, Sebastian had said. But Maker, it’s so difficult to get hard, to stay that way, without the use of his hand. Desperately, he sifts through mental imagery, until quite suddenly, he wonders what Sebastian would say if he found him like this — rutting against the doorframe, right here in the Gallows where anyone might come upon him, where… where…  _ Lift your kilt for me, Brother Templar _ , the Sebastian in his mind whispers over the shell of his ear, breath hot against the skin. Cullen feels his cock growing, the powerful image of Sebastian standing behind him, close enough to touch but somehow satisfied with watching… it is compelling. And the thought… the thought that someone may come upon them, Sebastian in his white robes with his hand on Cullen’s naked hip, red kilt hiked up over his wrist, feeling, watching, as Cullen thrusts mindlessly into the red stone… it, it’s just…

Trembling, Cullen stops. His cock is hard, but he… he’d been told to stop.  _ As hard as it is now, but untouched _ . He remembers, and smiles, a crooked little smile that speaks of a shameful, hard sort of pride. Will Sebastian notice? Will he praise him for his will? There is only one way to tell. Cullen steps back awkwardly from the doorframe, takes a deep lungful of the foetid air of the empty Harrowing chamber and sighs it out, then squeezes his hands into fists. It’s time to go.

The Grand Chantry smells much the same as it always does — but now, to Cullen, the smell of beeswax and incense is the smell of secrets, of delicious things kept locked away, held in reserve for those who prove themselves worthy. Because he will be worthy. Grimly, he limps through the corridors, toward the little antechamber that Sebastian had designated as their meeting place. His cock throbs. Unconsciously, he kneads the fabric of his kilt in one hand, bunched into his fist. And finally, he arrives. 

Everything about this moment pools and shimmers in his mind. The clammy feel of his hands inside his gloves; the grain of the oaken door before him. The golden shiver of light from beyond it, the way that it fades across the stone. He takes a breath, raises his fist and knocks. 

Nothing. Cullen swallows, his throat dry, and waits. Just as he’s raising his fist to knock again, a voice comes from behind the door - his voice. “Enter.”

It takes Cullen a moment to react; but after a breath, he grasps the handle and twists it, pushes the door open. The hinges creak as the door swings inward. And then he’s there, Sebastian, standing in front of him, smiling.

“I… I did it,” Cullen rasps, then clears his throat. “I did it,” he repeats, and Sebastian’s smile widens. His eyes sparkle as he gazes briefly into Cullen’s eyes then allows his gaze to rake over his form. The smile increases, just a further tiny curl of the lip, then Sebastian shrugs as he looks up once more into Cullen’s face. “Let me see it.”

Cullen makes a noise of assent and begins pulling up his kilt. Idly, Sebastian leans against the desk, folding his arms over his chest as he watches Cullen pulling at the clothes that he’d managed to pull on over his erection - no armour today, only cotton and wool, and though he’s grateful, he also feels more naked without it. As if he is giving up his duty. With shaking fingers, he undoes the last of the ties and pulls the cloth aside and down, exposing himself, looking up in time to see Sebastian’s avid stare.

A beat of silence; then Sebastian pushes himself off the desk and walks slowly toward Cullen. “Stand a little straighter,” he says, and Cullen does. Sebastian makes a noise of approval, then tells him as he walks around Cullen in a circle, “Good. Lift your chin a little, not too much. Hold the cloth aside, that’s good. Look straight ahead.”

Cullen obliges. This brings the small statuette of Andraste on her pyre into his line of sight, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Sebastian walks into view, then stops to Cullen’s left and follows his gaze.

“Holy Andraste,” he murmurs, “I seek your intercession for my Brother Templar, and beg you to turn the Maker’s gaze on him. Watch over him as he gives up the guilt of his past, as he seeks to remake himself in your Will and of the Will of the Maker. My Brother Templar seeks to understand that his faith can be as holy fire, shifting, changing yet never failing. Watch over him as he learns that the punishments of the body can be as the sweetest balm for the spirit. Let him walk in the Light of Your gaze.”

“In the Light of Your gaze,” Cullen repeats, his voice hardly above a whisper. He is shivering, though the room is not cold. Everywhere, he feels the presence of the deep lust and frigid faith of his youth intertwining; inside himself, he feels as if he stands on the precipice of some great change. He breathes out slowly, and Sebastian turns a little, looking at him, smiling calmly.

“Brother Templar,” he croons, and one hand reaches up to Cullen’s ear, traces the shell of it with his fingernail. The other reaches toward Cullen’s cock, takes it in hand; the feel of Sebastian’s warm palm against him makes Cullen twitch. He can feel it swelling again, returning to fullness after only thoughts for stimulus. A sharp breath in, and Sebastian’s smile grows a little; he doesn’t move his hand, only holds Cullen still, as if waiting for some sign.

As they stand, still as stone, Cullen becomes increasingly aware of the tiniest movements of Sebastian’s body against his own. The silence of the room becomes fuller; not silence at all, but replete with faint sound. Their twin breaths, his own heartbeat, a scrape of a chair in another room, the sound of discordant singing from somewhere far off. Sebastian watches his face carefully, then whispers, “You hear it, don’t you. The world.”

“Yes,” Cullen breathes. 

Sebastian murmurs agreement, and moves his hand gently, pulling a little at Cullen’s cock. “Recite from the Canticle of Andraste. Begin at the first canticle, verse nine.”

Hesitantly, Cullen clears his throat. “Sword-shattering fear filled me overflowing. Grandeur of godhood no gaze should defile…” The words rise to his throat automatically, and he quickly establishes the rhythm of the verses, words leaping into the air in a measured cadence. Sebastian nods, and as Cullen’s voice grows in confidence, so too does the strength of his touch upon him. It feels so good, to be touched by someone else that Cullen smiles a little, even as he recites the canticle. Sebastian must catch it, because he smiles back, though his eyes narrow, giving him a suspicious cast. “Good,” he murmurs, “Don’t stop.”

He takes his hand from Cullen and steps back a little, cocking his head very slightly. Still watching Cullen, he reaches up, takes the heavy chain with its golden sun from around his neck. He approaches Cullen again, extending his hands low, toward Cullen’s hips, and then the drape of the heavy golden chain is around Cullen’s cock, Sebastian is looping it once, twice, three times around, again and again until the holy sunburst hangs against Cullen’s balls, the metal against them cool, the points of the sunburst occasionally prickling and scraping against his thighs. In an instant, Cullen’s voice trembles, and he stumbles over the next line. Sebastian looks at him sharply, and draws his fingernails gently down Cullen’s shaft, circling the head then drawing them back down. “A…a...uh, I...” Cullen starts, then cannot remember the next line at all. He takes a short breath, panic reeling in his mind, and his hands tighten in the fabric of his kilt. Sebastian’s hand pauses on him, and he murmurs, his voice a warning, “Keep going.”

Cullen nods, but his throat is closed. He sniffs, blinks and then exhales, trying to calm himself. He stares straight ahead, at the statue of Andraste, and as if by divine intervention, the words appear in his mind. “A… a vision of all worlds, waking and slumb’ring… sp-spirit and… and mortal to me appeared.” A deep breath in, his guts suddenly queasy, and he bites his lip, then asks, “Brother Sebastian…”

“Brother Templar,” Sebastian says, and his hand stills entirely, “Is our work here finished?”

Cullen cannot answer, and involuntarily, he clenches his jaw. Then, after a moment’s more silence, he nods swiftly and swallows, before continuing, “Look to my work,’ said the Voice of Creation; ‘Look what my children in arrogance wrought.’”

“Good,” Sebastian purrs. As Cullen recites the canticle, Sebastian continues to tease Cullen’s cock with just fingers and fingernails, loosely ringing the shaft with forefinger and thumb for a few lazy strokes, then digging his short nails into the underside of the head; drawing small circles around the slit with his thumb, spreading the precum that Cullen has begun to leak around and around until Cullen feels dizzy with it. Gradually, Cullen realises that with his other hand, Sebastian has been winding the chain tighter around his cock. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for Cullen to speak, so great is his… what is this? It couldn’t be called pleasure, though it is that, almost immeasurably - but it is deeply painful, deeply… deeply something else, something so terrifying and troubling to Cullen’s own sense of self he can scarcely begin to think about it before he has to turn his thoughts away. _Perhaps that is the reason_ _that Andraste led you here_ , he wonders, even as he speaks the last lines of the stanza, “‘To… to my children venture, carrying wisdom. If they but listen, I shall return.”

“Good,” Sebastian repeats. “Very good. Brother Templar, how do you feel?”

“I… I don’t know,” Cullen chokes. “I… strange. Worse, and better, and… and Maker, please don’t stop, but I… I don’t know how much more… I’m…”

Sebastian makes a sound in his throat, long and satisfied and full of pleasure. “Brother Templar, open yourself to this. Though the fire burns and the poison stings, know that this suffering is holy,  _ because we deem it to be so _ . This world is full enough of people so crippled by guilt that they will not act; guilt that no god could feel was righteous, because we do not deem it to be. Do you see? Men make gods, just as gods make men.”

And with that, Sebastian takes him in hand, wrapping his warm, long fingers around Cullen. A few strokes more and Cullen bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. “I… I’m…” he whispers and Sebastian shakes his head. 

“Open your eyes,” he commands, “Look at Her.”

Cullen takes a deep, shuddering breath and blinks his eyes open, his stomach in knots, so tight he feels like he’ll be sick, so exaltant and powerful that every fibre of his being seems to cry out with it. He gasps; the white of the statue of Andraste is lit up, as if from within by the sunlight coming through the lozenged panes of glass. A hitching breath, two, and as he feels as if he cannot take it anymore, Sebastian suddenly releases the pressure of the chain around his cock. The relief is utterly beyond any pleasure that Cullen could have wished for - it is larger than anything he has ever felt. He does not — cannot — cry out, but his knees buckle and he feels himself come, hears Sebastian’s satisfied exhale, the honey and incense all in his nose, the blazing whiteness of Andraste’s image. 

Silence all around them then. Dimly, Cullen is aware of Sebastian supporting his weight, of his own breath, hot and too fast, the damp feeling of his skin. Slowly, Sebastian releases his grip on Cullen’s cock, then begins to unwind the chain from around it. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Oh, Brother Templar, you are… quite something. Did you suffer? Did you learn?”

Cullen swallows, licks his lip and bites it. “Yes,” he says quietly, pulling the sibilance of the word out, “I suffered. I… think I know more about myself than I did. If… if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Sebastian tells him. He sniffs, smiling in a self-satisfied manner, then looks at Cullen. “Open your mouth.”

Cullen does, unthinkingly, and Sebastian’s smile grows. He moves back from Cullen’s body, and twists, giving himself enough space to raise both hands to the level of his chest. Cullen glances down, his lips and tongue drying, and sees that Sebastian is holding the little golden sun between his fingers. He watches, sees Sebastian wipe the surface of the metal in between his fingers, over the back of his hand - and realises, with horror and fascination, that Sebastian is smearing his come over the holy object. He swallows, recoiling slightly, and closes his mouth. Sebastian glances at him, just from the corner of his eye, and inhales. “Brother Templar,” he says warningly, “What have I asked of you?”

“Open my mouth,” Cullen murmurs, “But I…”

He hesitates, then silently opens his mouth, wider this time, almost defiantly. And Brother Sebastian smiles - beautifully, wonderingly - then nods. “Breathe,” he mutters softly, and Cullen does, in spite of the tightness in his chest, in spite of the fluttering he still feels in his limbs. Oh, this is delicious torment, in his wildest dreams he could not have wished for it, because he did not know what it was called, how good it would feel. “All my guilt,” he murmurs, and his stomach lurches, “I… I want it to feel bad, I want to feel bad… I want to feel my sin, Brother Sebastian, please, please, I want…”

Sebastian shushes him gently, smiling. Slowly, he turns the golden sun in his fingers, looking at it, seeming to admire the way that the brilliant reflection of the metal has been dimmed by the thick pearlescent liquid cooling on it. “Open,” he commands Cullen, and then offers the sign of his office to him. “Lick,” he murmurs, and Cullen does.

Sebastian exhales. “By the Maker’s Will I decree, Harmony in all things,” he recites, watching as Cullen licks his own come from the Holy Sunburst. “Let Balance be restored and the world given eternal life.” He smiles, that same quicksilver grin. “You are free to feel as you will, Brother Templar. But remember that your guilt serves no-one - not the Chant, not your Order, not those you have sworn to protect… and certainly not yourself. Can you do that? Can you be a better man than you have been?”

Cullen swallows. “Yes,” he says, and smiles, blinking at Sebastian before narrowing his eyes. “Yes,” he repeats, and his smile broadens. “I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> It seems like about eight hundred years since I started writing this fic, but here it is, finally done. I really hope you enjoy it, cullenlovesmen, because I've certainly enjoyed reading yours over the years!
> 
> And for all you Chant of Light nerds out there, the verses in the fic are (in order of appearance): Apotheosis 2:8 ('Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud...'), Andraste 9:1 ('Sword-shattering fear filled me overflowing...'), and Exaltations 1:14 ('By the Maker's Will I degree...'). 
> 
> There are also references to St Augustine in Sebastian's line about using suffering as a herbalist uses a poultice. And just for good measure, nones is the service around mid-afternoon (or at least it was in the Medieval church).


End file.
